Date: Mon, 10 Jul 2017 17:12:16 -0400
From: Orson Cadell
Subject: Lake Desolation 17
Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/rural/lake-desolation/)
for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved.
Includes sex between adult men. Go away if any of that is against your
local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like, but
flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to Nifty
**TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming.
*****
I've never been religious, nor even particularly spiritual. In many ways
that does not matter here. A Jewish temple is actually a hall dedicated to
'right living' or Halakha, the collected wisdom and laws of the Jewish
worldview. It makes no clear distinction between religious and
non-religious life. This is a place, quite simply, of the ultimate Law, the
essence of rightness. I feel a sudden pang at the thought that I'd spent
the previous dinner at a place call BarBacon! But I'm not here for the
surface trappings, but from the deepest possible meaning of the Law, of
rightness. I'm here to reconcile who I was with who I think I might become
-- I turn and gaze at Logan's worried but heartbreakingly-perfect face --
and both of those with the miracle sitting beside me, the face speckled
with colours from the stained glass we sit before: The man I truly love.
*****
Lake Desolation 17: The Circle of Life
By Bear Pup
Wednesday (10)
*****
I turn to Logan slowly and he's watching me intently.
"No, Stettler."
"What? You don't even know if I was going to ask anything, much less what
I'd be asking! "
He sighs and smiles sadly, lower lip atremble. "Okay."
"Logan, will you..." I swallow about twenty times. When I asked the same
question so many decades ago, it seemed... easier. Almost obvious. "Will
you marry me?"
Logan's face is a mask of joy, sadness, hope and regret. "No, Stettler."
"...?"
"No. It's not what's right for you, or for us."
"But you didn't even THINK about it! And what's with Stettler? I don't
understand!" I nearly wail and can hear people turn in the otherwise-quiet
sacred space.
"Jake, I've thought of nothing else since you said you loved me all those
days ago. And certainly nothing but that question since we left the
lawyer. I like her. I really do."
"But why?!?" Do you know how hard it is to whisper a piteous howl?
"Think, Jake, with that amazing brain of yours instead of that precious
heart. Think for a minute. What the guy said. We'll both face
highly-personal questions, especially about what we were to each other
before Maria passed. Even how you and Maria... were together, what you were
to each other, becomes a topic of discussion."
"I don't care, Logan." My voice is harsh and fierce, and completely,
brutally honest. The rest of the planet can fuck themselves.
"And I don't either, Jake, but it's not Stettler saying that. That's who
we're talking about right now, Stettler and Larry. You're not marrying
Logan. You're marrying Larry Mallory. And from what the world knows, it's
Stettler doing the marrying. 'Highly-personal questions'? 'Intense
scrutiny'? Jake, how long do think these papers that make me Larry can hold
up under that?"
My breathing stops entirely and the beautiful space around me begins to
swim alarmingly. Logan's voice, though, is soft and caring and yet still
relentless.
"You will have thrown everything away, Jake, for nothing. We could never be
together after that, even if we weren't thrown in jail. Logan will marry
Jake in an instant. In a heartbeat. But Larry can't marry Stettler
McKay. Larry can't let you/him risk destroying everything, just for a
gesture."
I growl, genuinely pissed off now, "It is not a gesture. Don't you dare
cheapen this!"
Logan's voice never changes in tone or pace, even as my own modulates
between the extremes of emotion. "I'm not cheapening it. It *is* a
gesture. Do you really think either of us needs a government receipt that
says we love each other? I'll wear your ring if you want, but why risk
everything just for that piece of paper? And a piece of paper that doesn't
even mention *us*, but two people we made up? Think, Jake, or better yet
let Stettler do the thinking for you!"
"But Logan," I'm pleading now, "what if I die? I need to know you're safe!
I need it, Logan."
"Oh, Jake. I don't need all that money to be happy. Leave me the cabin and
enough to live in it."
"I... I can't, Logan. It's not enough. I, I just can't. And I can't be here
anymore. I can't think, Logan! C-C-C-C-Can we go? Back to the hotel?"
"Of course. I'll go find us a cab. Come on out when you're ready."
Logan vanishes like smoke and I look up at the stained glass in front of
me. The twinkles seem to say the same thing to me they did in my youth, and
are no more understandable now than then, 'Told ya so.'
I get ponderously to my feet and make my way out, handing the startled
attendant another large-denomination bill even as she tries to explain how
much I overpaid earlier. I smile at her sadly. Logan has managed to hail a
cab, God only knows how, and I climb in. I pull out my iPhone Red and ask,
"So, show me how to make a call on this thing..."
I find and dial Bill's Burger Bar and order to go, we'll take it to the
room. We arrive a few minutes later, Logan again paying with his phone, and
head into the lobby. The hostess of Bill's sees us and makes a frantic
phone call and a kitchen kid runs out, panting, and hands me two sacks and
says they've already put it on my tab. I have a tab? Who knew?
We're in the elevator and the room in no time but the smell is leaking out
of one of the sacks. I decided to 'balance' the meal when I ordered. I got
a Cobb salad (slightly healthier than, say, a cheeseburger) to balance the
Junk Fries, a horrific addiction of crispy fresh French fries covered with
pulled pork and chili and cheese and cheese and cheese and deliciousness
and sour cream. I swear to god they use OMG instead of MSG in
everything. We devour everything, me using the time to try and sort out
what Logan had said alongside my own fractured emotions.
We've reservations at the Waverly Inn for 6:15 and tickets for Lion King at
8:00, so we've got time to unwind a bit. Logan doesn't even give me time to
decide. He pulls me into the bedroom and pushes me onto my stomach. The
backrub is what I need in so many different ways. His touch alone drains
away my fears and worries, and he meticulously works out the knots that
have colonised my neck and shoulders like barnacles on an old whale. When
he rolls me over and kisses my nipples, he has the undivided attention of
every nerve in my body. We cuddle away the afternoon, never really having
sex but most-certainly making love.
We clean up and dress. We'd put all of the clothes we weren't going to wear
today in the hotel laundry sacks yesterday, including the massive Macy's
haul. Everything had been hanging in the closet, neatly pressed and ready,
when we got back from lunch. I freshen up and get into my 'generic night
out' uniform -- white turtleneck, dark-grey slacks and jacket, black belt
and shoes. A watch (I hate watches but find them useful when doing the
theatre) completes the ensemble.
Logan is breath-taking in white jeans, black engineer boots and a huge
black leather belt, a long-sleeve white tee with black and dark-blue
'tattoo' patterns running up and down the sleeves and around the collar,
and a midnight-blue vest. My breath catches and he smiles shyly, "So, is it
okay?"
I just blink for a minute then shake my head. All I can do is whisper,
"You're beautiful." He leans forward and kisses me lightly on the cheek and
I shiver violently.
I'm still shaking (and frequently staring in wonder) as we pull up to The
Waverly Inn on Bank Street just off St Vincent Triangle and the AIDS
Memorial. During the day, you would never know the place is there in the
long rows of stately brownstones. A tiny green 'box' a half-storey in
height and a small sign leading down some stairs are the only
indicators. Now, however, a half-dozen white tables grace the sidewalk and
the lights shine brightly.
The expectedly-snooty maitre'd seats us immediately to the grumpy looks of
others, but this is known to cater to celebrities. I'm not really sure that
winter is normal celebrity-hunting season, nor the daily bag limits, but we
do spot a famously-gay couple (a TV personality and a semi-former actor) in
a cozy booth by the fireplace. A couple of others have the entourage thing
going, so they either are or want to pretend to be celebs of one stripe or
another. With Graydon Carter of Vanity Fair as owner, both the famous and
the beautiful flock to the place.
The intense murals on the walls set me back a bit, making the small space
seem so much more crowded than it really is. What makes me smile though is
the reaction to Logan. He turns heads as we pass and I can see several
narrowed eyes and discrete whisperings that are probably trying to decide
who he (or I) most resembles; we got a table so one of us must be
*somebody*, and I'm not exactly Vanity Fair material!
The meal is, to me, a bit overwrought. It seems to try too hard. Then
again, the header at the top of the menu reads, <>, so I'm willing to give them a
break. If he hates them, there's got to be *something* worthwhile going on!
It starts brilliantly, though. Since we had a pretty heavy lunch, Logan and
I share an insanely-good wedge salad with a powerfully-perfect dressing and
crispy lardons. Simplicity itself. Logan gets a delicate, tender-toothful,
deftly-seasoned gnocchi made with house-crafted ricotta that would have
been perfection itself if served simply. It's not that bloomsdale spinach
and truffle-butter make it worse -- in fact, they're delicious -- but why
bother? I'm in the mood for chicken [Hey, now! None of that smirking!] and
get a dish that's wonderful but with far too many adjectives. Amish Chicken
with terrine potato, bitter greens, balsamic-glazed cipollini and a mustard
jus. See what I mean by trying too hard? Delicious, though.
Dessert, though, ah... there they make up for everything. There are two
fall fruits that are superb, but are magically transformed by the power of
winter: Cranberries and wild apples. Allowing them to freeze in place and
stay there until ready for use is essential, and very little cooking is
required to make them explode with tart, puckery sweetness. On top of the
lightly-cooked fruit lies a peak of that house ricotta whipped with dark,
pungent honey and ground almonds, with a sprig of wintergreen as
garnish. If they kept the rest of the meal as simple and focused, they
could add a half-point or more to their Zagat score.
We are supremely satisfied at the end and laugh as we walk in the cold wind
to the corner of Greenwich to hail a cab. A nightmarish mess on Sixth
(apparently a bike messenger tried unsuccessfully to commit
suicide-by-taxi) leaves us only a short opportunity to collect our Will
Call tickets and make our seats.
Rafiki comes out to warn everyone about their cell phones (this is
Disney. people; I think they may actually do the whole Sharia
cut-a-hand-off thing if you record a show). A few moment later, her (Rafiki
is played by a woman on stage) powerful, almost-unearthly cry of "Nants
ingonyama bagithi baba" rings out, scaring everyone, even those who have
seen it in the Minskoff before. From that moment on, we are lost in a world
of silk and savannah-grass, texture and light, voice and melody.
The movie was a triumph; the musical production was a revolution and it's
lost none of its power over the two decades it's played Broadway. Interval
is a chaos of milling people and we keep our seats, though Logan gets up to
stretch and I again see people turn with that, 'Should I know him?'
look. Oddly, it happens most often when he's looking at me; it's as if he
glows and I bask in the reflected light. Hours later, we can still hear the
echo of the grasslands as we float out of the theatre and enter one of the
six billion cabs lining 45th Street.
I give the address of the hotel behind ours, the W. I have a treat in store
for Logan. The Living Room Bar is a stunning space. Since it's a Wednesday
night, it's only thronged, not completely mobbed. I make my way to the bar
and order a virgin El Guapo for Logan and a disgustingly-perfect
sweet-sour-citrus 212 Paloma for me and we find seats by the windows on
square poufs -- go ahead, obvious pun: poufs on poufs. The windows reflect
the stunning waves of lights from the inside art installation, interrupted
by the brilliance of Freedom Tower and other landmarks. We sip and stare,
at much at each other as the view, only occasionally-jostled by the hip,
young crowd.
I notice the jackals and wolves scent Logan and start to converge. My
hackles rise as one moves in, a stunningly-flawless gold-bedecked black
woman with shoes worth more than my cabin and a predatory gleam. She leans
forward and whispers, but Logan's eyes never leave my own face and his
smile never wavers. He gives her a minute.
Logan puts a hand on her arm and, still without looking at her, says, "This
is my husband, the famous author. I'm sure you recognise him, dear." For
the first time, he turns to look and gives her an appraising and rather
disdainful up-down worthy of a drag queen in full Vogue mode, pausing at
the insanely-long nails and the ropes of chain, then turns back to me, "So,
there simply is no chance that anyone, anywhere, is going to pull my
attention from the man of my dreams."
The woman's jaw drops and suddenly she bursts out in genuine, raucous
laughter. "Honey chile, you got 'no' down to an art form. You go, baby!"
She blows him a kiss to each of us and loses herself in the crowd, still
chuckling. Logan waits until she's out of sight and bursts into giggles.
"I have ALWAYS wanted to say something like that! Jake, this is the perfect
nightcap. Well..." his voice lowers and he moves close to my ear, "it WILL
be perfect in about an hour. Do you mind if we head to the room?"
Mind? I think we teleport! For reasons I cannot begin to explain, I am
alive, vibrant with crackling energy after the day. I am on him the instant
the door swings shut, powering him into the bedroom and stripping him with
a growl. There will be tailor bills for this as I sense more than one
button carrom off walls. As I pull his jeans violently off his legs, I
growl again, echoing the show we saw just hours before
I watch his eyes light up and breath shorten and I growl louder, a predator
on the great savannah. I stalk my prey as he watches, prey desperate to be
part of my very private circle of life. I start as any good carnivore, with
the tender underbelly of my helpless quarry. I doubt gazelles giggle
frequently whilst being devoured, but one never knows. I move up and begin
to gnaw and suck at his nipples, feeling him writhe under me, electrified.
Every whimper, every moan, every squeak and squawk throw dry grass upon my
wildfire of lust. My hands are everywhere, my lip, everywhere. I can feel
my dick-slime coating his legs and his coating my belly. I draw my short,
smooth nails down his sides and flanks and Logan throws back his head and
groans in delicious torment. This act, this drawing down, lets me look up
the entire length of my lover's body.
He moves sensuously, lost in the sensations that I'm drawing from him. His
nipples rise and fall in short arcs, driven by his breath. His belly is
sucked in, as if to maximise the amount of area I can plunder at will. His
scent... oh my God. My nose is right above the fork of his crotch and I can
smell the male animal I have taken as my victim. I look down at the thick,
weighty, throbbing snake that pulses there and do the thing that I never
once knew I needed more than life itself.
Logan hollers in surprise when he feels me engulf the head of his cock in
my mouth and I can sense him staring in shock at the sight. The taste
is... Logan, which means life and love and longing and lust; fulfilment and
fear and fantasy and the primal force of youth. I dive my tongue deep
beneath his foreskin and hit tiny pockets of explosive flavour, each an
intense blow of distilled MAN that makes me whimper around his cock.
I glance up and his body is arched as if in the last throes of
electrocution, head flinging from side to side. I begin to dive deeper and
deeper, then pull back to savour the gush or fluid that each attack draws
forth. I feel him -- involuntarily? -- pull his legs up and apart to give
me greater freedom and I let my hands explore the virgin territory. A
squeaky-groan escapes, a high and needy thing, as one of my hands slides
into the crack and my fingers find wet warmth there. The other is fully
occupied with the pair of hairy eggs that squirm toward and away from my
touch.
I voice that is far too high and far too desperate to be my beautiful prey
for the evening rings across the savannah, "NoNo! No! Oh God!
OhGodOhGodOhGod! No. You, y-y-y-you have, have, have t-t-t-tooooooo, UHN!
No-no-no-no-no-no GAH!!" I am shocked back to conscious thought as the
first explosive volley hits the roof of my mouth, but that spark is
extinguished in the drenching lust of the taste. The salt and the sweet and
the bitter and the so, so, SO utterly male flavour! I suck it down like the
elixir of life that it truly has become for me. His essence and my
sacrament in a single, blessed nectar. For the very first time in my life,
I feel complete. A circle without end, but a circle with Logan as it's
essential centre in all things. My very own circle of life.
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Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
Canvas Hell: 31 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/
Beaux Thibodaux: 23 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/
The Heathens: 24 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/
Lake Desolation: 17 chapters .../rural/lake-desolation/
Shark Reef: 10 chapters .../adult-youth/shark-reef/
Culberhouse Rules: 6 chapters .../incest/culberhouse-rules/
Raven's Claw: 6 chapters .../authoritarian/ravens-claw/
Ashes & Dust: 1 chapter .../rural/ashes-and-dust/